


it's this life that we've created (inundated with the fated thought of you)

by dragon_rider



Series: Oh, darling, please be mine [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Geralt Fluff Week (The Witcher), M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25718563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: Destiny had been fucking him over since before he was born, yet this loving man kept choosing the Witcher as his own fate time and again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Oh, darling, please be mine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865434
Comments: 9
Kudos: 240
Collections: Geralt Fluff Week 2020





	it's this life that we've created (inundated with the fated thought of you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elder-flower (elder_flower)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elder_flower/gifts).



> This is for [Geralt Fluff Week Day One: First times](https://geraltfluffweek.tumblr.com/) but I'm not good at writing on any type of schedule so... here, have the first day five days late!
> 
> Thanks to my awesome friend and beta [elder-flower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elder_flower/pseuds/elder-flower).
> 
> This story is the sequel of a drabble that you can find as the first part of this series but I think you're okay without reading it. You should definitely brush your teeth before continuing though.

Their first hug was long and warm, filling a gap within that Geralt hadn’t even been aware existed.

They were still outside those stables, the Witcher hadn’t even made sure the townspeople wouldn’t spit on him and he wouldn't need to leave before he could look at the noticeboard, but suddenly none of that mattered with Jaskier in his arms.

He smelled like vanilla and a little bit of cinnamon, a touch of pinewood. Sweet but fresh, with a hidden depth that he’d witnessed more than once when the bard got angry on his behalf whenever someone insulted him or tried to scam him.

Geralt was so focused on memorizing the smell, the feel and everything about that moment that he didn’t realize he was burrowing into Jaskier’s neck and sniffing him until the man chuckled gently.

“Do I smell nice, my love?”

 _My love_. It reverberated in his mind, bouncing along the still slow but loud beating of his mutated heart.

He’d never been called that before.

“Hmm,” he replied, trusting Jaskier would catch the affirmation there.

The troubadour’s arms were still around his neck when he whispered right next to his ear, “I have a room at the inn, will you come with me, Geralt?”

The Witcher heard the unasked question, crystal clear: _Are we doing this?_

He appreciated the out the younger man was offering. Perhaps a month ago he would’ve taken it.

This time he would not; not after the mountain, not after knowing what going without what he’d taken for granted was like.

He had thought with three hundred years under his belt he knew what being in love felt like: like burning and hurting and being out of breath constantly when that person was around, but with Jaskier it felt like he was coming to shore after a long, tiring journey at sea, like being held after a nightmare would feel, like safety, like having a space carved only for him in this godsforsaken world after all.

“Yes,” he answered roughly, his lips on his barker’s anything but, his hands cupping the man’s face as gently as he knew how to.

Their first kiss was unlike any other, too. Whores didn’t often enjoy kissing and with Yennefer it had always been a means to an end.

This contact was unassuming and unhurried, Jaskier’s lips soft as silk and skilled in caressing Geralt’s in ways that were surprisingly pleasant and yet tender. The poet’s hands held onto the Witcher’s shoulders, arms hooked under his, his weight pressing down slightly in no way bothering him.

Being almost of a height helped, the bard tilting his head slightly so that their mouths just seemed to fit together.

They were breathing in the same air, foreheads touching, when Jaskier started singing softly.

“ _It's what my heart just yearns to say_

_I_ _n ways that can't be said_

_It's what my rotting bones will sing_

_When the rest of me is dead_

_It's what's engraved upon my heart..._ ”

“Jaskier,” he interrupted, embarrassed, “you don’t need to fucking serenade me.”

“Oh, I know I don’t need to, dear heart,” the bard objected, fingertips drawing the lines of his jaw and cheekbone and then his brow as if to ease the frown there. “That doesn’t mean I’m not going to. You do love my voice, any nasty words you’ve said notwithstanding. Besides, you deserve to be serenaded, Geralt, have you met yourself?”

The Witcher was speechless. Words weren’t his special suit--except when he was using them as yet another weapon--and he’d never been romanced in any kind of way.

He knew he wasn’t a catch, or a keeper, or whatever it was people called it. He was a monster to most, a killer for hire to all, so having this doting man’s attention was startling.

It made him feel like perhaps it was okay to be who he was, his mutations and shortcomings still worth it for Jaskier somehow.

“Oh sweet heavens, are you blushing?” The bard pecked both his indeed too warm cheeks and beamed. “You are blushing! I have been blessed with a rare sight, haven’t I?”

"I, hmm," he looked down, scowling still. "That song, is… it's good."

It was the song he'd remembered before, the one that had stayed with him the most during his self-imposed lonely nights on the road.

"That's high praise coming from you, my dear." His barker was the one burrowing into his neck then, his nose brushing pleasantly against his skin. "Now I'm blushing too."

"You never sing it when you're performing," the Witcher commented, telling himself he could breathe in Jaskier's hair deeply because they were still holding each other.

It was allowed. They were… doing this. Geralt wasn't running or pushing him away.

"Ah, love songs aren't crowd pleasers, I'm afraid," the poet informed him, his tone turning mournful. "Epics and tawdry songs are a travelling bard's bread and butter."

"You write too fucking many love songs, then," he teased, wanting to see Jaskier blushing because of him and not because of alcohol or somebody else but loath to break apart enough to watch his face at the moment.

"What can I say? You are very inspiring, my dear Witcher." As if reading his mind, the bard raised his head to look him in the eye, a lovely shade of pink coloring his pale skin. "Actually, I'm not quite sure I'm not dreaming. Perhaps you could pinch me? In whatever place you deem most appropriate, of course."

Geralt took his mouth in a kiss again, this time more heated and with tongue, the way in which he was skilled.

"I'll do better than that, if you show me to your room," he promised, voice a deep rumble.

He felt the poet shiver against him in response, his legs giving way a little if the added pressure on the Witcher's back was any indication.

***

Jaskier took his hand and led him to the town's inn, greeting the owner cheerfully and introducing Geralt smoothly since they did have a monster problem that he could see to in the morning.

"How long have you been here?" Geralt asked as they went up the stairs, still hand in hand.

That was new too, another thing that sent warmth to places he didn't know had been cold.

"I'm good at Witcher-tracking after so long, Geralt," the troubadour declared proudly. "I knew you'd show up eventually."

Geralt raised both eyebrows and pursed his lips, impressed despite himself, and wondered just how many times the bard had 'tracked' him during the years they'd known each other.

Destiny had been fucking him over since before he was born, yet this loving man kept choosing the Witcher as his own fate time and again.

"People are nice here, dear, we don't need to worry." Jaskier used his free hand to get the key to the room from his pocket and stopped, suddenly worried, looking at him wide-eyed and earnest. "Shit, I didn't ask for a bath, would you like one? Something to eat and drink, maybe?"

Geralt raised the poet's hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles, enveloping that trim, lovely waist with his other arm.

"Just open the damn door, Jaskier," he ordered, lips closing on the bard's earlobe softly.

Jaskier's breath hitched, his heart speeding up at the Witcher's prodding, and he did as he was told, pressing closer to him, his hand blindly finding and unlocking the door.

They almost fell right through it once it was open and the bard laughed merrily, the hand still in Geralt's squeezing gently as the Witcher made sure they didn't fall to the ground in their haste.

"You do know how to make a man swoon, my darling."

"Hmm," he agreed, almost fighting the smile that was coming but remembering it was okay.

They were okay. Geralt hadn't ruined them, Jaskier had forgiven him so fast it was dizzying to have him back and in a new place, right in his arms.

He took the key from the bard’s trembling fingers and locked the door, wondering why they were both so nervous when they knew each other better than anybody and it had taken them decades to come this far. Had it not been for his enhancements, he was sure he’d be shaking as well.

This… this was important, he felt it in the very core of his being, that part of him that he’d spent most of his life ignoring and that Jaskier had pushed back into light and warmth with his company and undaunted dedication.

His old self would have mocked the poet, sassed him about where the supposed skilled and famous paramour of many had gone when his dexterity was about to be needed.

Right in that moment, he was too flattered and comforted in the knowledge this was as earth-shattering for Jaskier as it was for him.

“I won’t bite,” he teased lightly, kissing the bard slowly and getting hard just from feeling him sighing against his lips before chasing them back for more, “unless you want me to.”

“Promises, promises,” the smaller man chuckled in a low voice. “I should demand a love bite for every year you made me wait.”

There was something else he had to do before they made good use of the bed in the corner of the modest room, something that was pushing to come out but for all his alleged strength, he was still too weak to say.

Jaskier started on the clasps of his armor as they shared more kisses on their way to the bed, nimble fingers opening them without even looking and fuck if that didn’t have the Witcher falling for him all over again.

The bard went about setting the pieces carefully against the wall, making a face at the state of some of them.

“You need a new breastplate,” he commented, scowling at it and dropping it as if it had offended him. “There’s a good blacksmith nearby, we could go tomorrow morning. You’re not fighting a kikimora in this useless thing!”

The Witcher nodded, knowing he’d been more reckless than usual during his most recent time alone on the Path.

“In the morning,” he agreed, pulling Jaskier back to him by the strings of his breeches, undoing them as he sucked lightly on the exposed skin of his neck.

The poet was sensitive there, he could tell by the lovely, almost musical moan he got by peppering it with more kisses.

Some would definitely leave a mark that Jaskier wasn’t going to be able to cover.

“You’re still overdressed,” the bard complained breathily, tugging at the hem of his shirt to get it out of his trousers.

"I wasn't the one walking around half naked,” Geralt remarked, his lips still quirked in a small smile.

Once they’d gotten rid of their boots and trousers, he tossed his partner onto the bed, mindful of his strength. Jaskier reacted with a delighted laugh, taking his chemise off.

“You like it, admit it.” His cornflower blue eyes were bright and joyful, and the Witcher was already so stunned. He hadn’t heard or seen this much happiness during bed activities in… well.

He supposed he was going through a lot of first times, rolled all together in the breathtaking form of the poet in his arms.

He leaned over Jaskier, knees bracketing his hips.

“I like you better like this.” He nipped at the brunet’s jaw, enjoying how the bard’s hand instantly gripped his nape to keep him there.

Jaskier took his hair tie out and sighed in pleasure as Geralt’s white hair cascaded over them.

“I take it back, I don’t want to wake up from this lovely dream, my love,” the poet murmured, cocking his head up just so, his lips catching the Witcher’s in a slow, long caress that had Geralt eager for more, hips rutting of their own accord after he let himself fall on his lover and enjoy the drag between their bodies.

Even his breath was running low when he felt Jaskier’s toned leg encircling his thighs and he huffed, impressed and amused, suddenly under the bard’s cheeky grin with their positions on the bed reversed.

He was by no means light and even though Jaskier had used a clever maneuver to flip them over, it still required considerable strength.

“I’m no delicate flower, my dear. You don’t like those, if I know you at all, and I’m pretty sure I do.”

Jaskier was right, of course, but somehow in his head he still had seemed… delicate. Frail.

Something Geralt needed to fucking be careful with, otherwise he would break him like he’d broken plenty of good things during his life.

“Hey.” The bard cupped his face in both hands, his thumb stroking the Witcher’s cheeks, his eyes filled with concern and other emotions he was not used to seeing directed at him. “What happened? Where did you go, love? I’m sorry if I said something that upset you--”

“No.”

His voice was rougher than usual and he felt Jaskier going still, even holding his breath--perhaps, Geralt thought, he still feared he would change his mind and toss him aside.

He’d done it plenty of times before, after all.

“Don’t apologize,” he amended, sitting up to mirror his bard’s grip on his face, “I’m the one who should do it. I was cruel, unfair--”

“Geralt, you don’t have to--”

“I want to,” he cut in, resolute because it was easy to be stronger than he really was with everything he needed right in his lap for him to have and to hold. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I hurt you. I know because I saw it that day and because--because I know you. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m bad at--” He shut his eyes, almost shaking when he felt the younger man’s lips kissing his eyelids gently. "This.”

“You really are a marvel.” The bard kissed him, light but lingering. “I love you, Geralt, all of you. I don’t mind that you’re bad at words, or whatever you think you’re bad at. I’ve loved you for decades because of what you have in here.” He petted the Witcher’s chest, his right hand resting over his heart and remaining there. “Humanity does not deserve you, my love, and perhaps neither do I, but we still get to have you.”

Bit by bit, he opened his eyes and entwined his fingers with Jaskier’s hand on his chest. He may have had an impossible time believing empty words, but the bard’s face was expressive and so adoring it was difficult, even for him, to be doubtful.

Jaskier also had songs and years of evidence to shut the Witcher right up, if he tried to contradict him.

“You’re a strange man, Jaskier.”

“Yes, I am, and you love me.”

The bard laughed, clearly pleased, as Geralt pushed him onto the mattress again and his head ended up hanging by the foot of it. They were really too big for this tiny bed but the Witcher took advantage of the nice expanse of pale skin that it granted him, leaving another mark right over Jaskier’s pulse point and feeling it flutter, getting faster, right between his teeth.

He growled at hearing the poet’s loud, unashamed moan and tried to take over the impossible task of taking their underclothes off one-handed while having their legs tangled and no space between them.

Jaskier was right on the same page and helped, his dexterous fingers relocating from Geralt's shoulder blade to tug at the fabric. His other hand was still trapped between their bodies and Geralt had no plans of letting go yet.

It took a bit of grunting and quiet cursing, but they were finally bare.

Carefully, Geralt pulled Jaskier up by the nape and enjoyed how the poet immediately curled his legs around his hips, mouth desperate to join his own as their cocks brushed against each other.

“Oil, I should--mm, have some,” the brunet said, panting, glancing at the small bedside table long enough for Geralt to guess the vial was there.

“Hmm.”

His hand finally released Jaskier’s and he used it to hold them both, his index finger gathering the pre-come leaking from their heads to ease the way of his palm around them.

Seeing his lover arch his back and hearing him pant, wanton and flushed, was rapidly becoming one of his favorite things.

By touch alone, he went through the bard’s things on the nightstand and found the oil.

He wanted to see and touch all of his partner, all at once, but not even his mutations would allow that so he settled for slicking two of his fingers and finding Jaskier’s entrance as they kissed lewdly.

He stroked around the soft, puckered skin before pressing there gently. The bard’s body uncoiled like a string and pushed against his fingertips, the heated kisses they were sharing broken by the way he stretched and whined.

“Fuck, please, yes,” Jaskier begged. The Witcher complied, scenting the back of the poet’s ear and getting a whiff of the spicy bits he liked the most, growling loudly in surprise when Jaskier responded by surrounding his hand with his leaner one and sped up his work on their cocks.

“Be patient,” he admonished in a rasp, his own body desperate for the quick release his lover was offering, hips following the bard’s rhythm. “Fuck, Jaskier, I’m going to--”

His mind whited out for a moment, lost in the haze of the swift, heady relief the poet had brought them.

He panted against the brunet’s hair, hearing him giggle, winded but proud, before the bard straightened and kissed him languidly. 

“Now we have time to get that lovely, thick cock in me, dear, and I did want to be covered in your seed too.”

Geralt was still half-stupid in the afterglow but he heard himself chuckling, wondering how he’d ever thought Jaskier would be anything but cheeky and astonishing in bed.

The man laid down on the bed, holding his legs up and spreading them, head tilted in a half-lidded, come-hither look that had the Witcher on top of him with supernatural speed.

There was a sticky mess between them, but Geralt didn’t pay it any mind, biting his lover’s kiss-swollen lips between kisses and prodding his entrance until it gave way to the first knuckle.

His finger was squeezed in a vice-like grip, hot and smooth and tantalizing.

“Fuck, you’re tight.”

The bard replied with a choked off moan, chest heaving and hands grasping desperately for purchase on the Witcher’s arms, gripping hard enough to sting.

He’d been right, this would take a little while, but it wasn’t a task Geralt found taxing in the least. He drank in every sound his lover made; the feel of their skin getting overheated again; the beautiful, debauched sight he made opening himself up for the taking. All that pale, unmarred skin for Geralt to lick and kiss as he pushed finger after finger inside of Jaskier, feeling him shake with the same need that was smothering him, trying to hurry him through the steps as his cock pulsed, rock hard and ready again.

He leaned down to touch their foreheads together, panting almost as wildly as his lover.

“Tell me, tell me when I can--”

Instead of words, Jaskier showed his consent by dragging him further down by the hair and kissing him hungrily, his hand tugging almost painfully at the hair on the Witcher’s nape.

He barely had the presence of mind to use more oil to slick himself before pressing in, the slight resistance of Jaskier’s body to the head of his cock having him sweating and rumbling low in his chest.

Finally, he slid right in. He tried to hold still, at least for a few moments, but Jaskier was having none of it, ankles crossed and heels digging into the small of the Witcher’s back to push himself up and onto him.

Geralt cursed and used his hands to spread his bard’s knees wider, rutting in and out inch by inch until he was balls deep.

“Geralt, yes,” Jaskier sobbed, overwhelmed but smelling of nothing but lust and contentment, no pain despite the not so gentle start of their coupling, his cock slowly filling up again.

“Fuck, Jaskier, you feel--” He swallowed what felt like a roar in his throat, wheezing between clenched teeth as the slick slide of his cock inside of Jaskier drove him crazy. “Fuck, so good.”

The small bed creaked under them with the force of Geralt’s thrusts, Jaskier never failing to meet his hips in perfect counterpoint, and he’d never been as deeply buried in anyone as he was in that moment, so intertwined together they might as well have been one.

The bard reached for his hands and the Witcher let him, letting his weight fall on the slightly smaller man to keep him nice and spread for him, their fingers entwined at each side of Jaskier’s head.

Kissing turned into panting against each other’s lips, nips and tugs shared between moans, and he tried to stroke his partner to completion since he was getting close but Jaskier seemed absolutely confident of what he wanted and that was Geralt pounding into him, burying him under his weight and letting the friction against his middle do the rest.

Just like the first time, it was like falling off a cliff and discovering he had wings for a moment--Geralt felt weightless, suspended in time, whole, and when he came back to, completely out of breath and covered in sweat, Jaskier was nuzzling against his forehead, nose buried in the hair plastered there.

They were still holding hands, so it was simple to bring the back of Jaskier’s left to his lips, gently brushing his knuckles in quiet awe.

Gingerly, his bard dropped his legs and winced slightly. Geralt was already frowning, noticing the tear tracks on the poet’s cheeks as well, but Jaskier shushed him with a kiss and brought him to rest upon his still racing heart.

“I’m okay,” his lover reassured him. “Happy tears, and good soreness, I promise.”

“Hmm.”

The Witcher sighed, eyelids drooping almost against his will.

He wanted to stay awake longer, enjoy their embrace and hear Jaskier talking nonsense with that lovely voice of his raspy from their activities, chin against the top of Geralt’s head, but he was so relaxed and it’d been weeks since he’d last slept soundly.

“Sweet dreams, my love,” Jaskier whispered, his arms going around Geralt’s torso. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Perhaps the most surprising thing of all was that the Witcher believed him, no fear or guilt suffocating him anymore.

He breathed in their combined scent and dreamed of them.


End file.
